Ten Times He Saw Her
by Svelte Rose
Summary: 1st time he heard about her, 2nd time he read about her, 3rd time he saw her through youngHarry's eyes, 4th time he captured her. Each subsequent time thereafter captivated him more and more until the final time. He was never wrong, until now. TRxHG.


**Author**: Svelte Rose

**Rating: **R

**Title**: Ten Times He Saw Her

**Characters**: Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle

**Warnings**: UST, non-consensual, AU

**Date**: September 15th, 2007

**Note: **I'm too hung up on Ridione to quit writing them. So happy I actually came out with this though…my muse isn't completely dead. Thanks to my beta, Nicole for looking over this!

* * *

He had first heard about her when the youngest of the Weasley brood scratched her pen across his pages. Her words were drenched with bitterness, jealousy, and the pain that came from loss of your first love. She could not stop talking about the witch in question for days, going on and on about this and that. About how brilliant everyone thought she was but really, who could like a know-it-all beaver like her? How she had grown out of her awkward age faster than the boys of Hogwarts could catch up, though what they'd want with a prudish biddy who had stank like musty, old books, she couldn't fathom.

He was never fond of mindless complaints like that but he didn't mind in this instance. In fact, every hateful word she wrote against the know-it-all witch, he soaked up. Literally. After all, it was mainly the fuel behind her possession.

Jealousy is but a subdivision of hatred and the red-haired girl felt plenty for the bushy-haired witch. He would find out later that her jealousy was not without merit.

* * *

The second time he had come across her was when he had just regained his corporeal form and was resting at the Malfoy Manor. He had spied several old copies of the Daily Prophet in the vast library and while he was never one for gossip, that Rita Skeeter creature had quite the penchant for words. At first, her articles espoused of the brilliant witch shacking it up with the Boy-Who-Lived and slowly, the words of praise turned to scathing remarks meant to hurt and degrade. He had been amused at the time, wondering how the bushy-haired witch managed to be the ire of so many different people.

He had found out from his followers that she had been quite a large thorn in his side. She had prevented not one, but three of his attempts to regain his corporeal form. The only reason she hadn't succeeded the fourth time was because it was in an enclosed area, magicked so that no one but the intended victim could get in. However, he imagined she was probably the reason the green-eyed boy had gotten out of that cemetery when he did. That belief was heightened when he heard the innumerous complaints the young Malfoy had been spewing, most of which only ascertained his knowledge that she had been the one to train young Potter during the Tri-Wizard championship and that she was the reason he hadn't been killed yet.

He really should thank her since keeping young Potter alive also gave him the chance to make his comeback.

Beauty and brains. A deadly combination though she seemed very much unaware of the first. One of the Daily Prophet pictures showed her sequestered between three of the four Tri-Wizard tournament participants, her expressions varied from innocence to annoyance as the boys shoved and pushed, grinning faces all around. It was as though she was absolutely innocent in her age, while at the same time, wise enough to know that she should be prepared for whatever came her way. It would explain why she also seemed to have mistaken the looks the three boys sent at her for teasing instead of adoration. Rita Skeeter may have exaggerated far too much for his liking but she had to get her material somewhere. After all, you didn't just materialize a polygon of an affair out of no where, concerning the people that it did.

* * *

The third time he'd seen her was when, for a scant moment, he was in possession of the _boy's_ mind. He called him a boy because he refused to admit that the creature clumsily thrusting himself into the rosy body of the woman beneath him was anything _but_. Of course, it would also be admitting that it had been a 'boy' who had defeated and escaped him five times- not a man. That was _embarrassing_.

He ignored the fact that he had admitted that she was anything but a 'girl.' After all, a girl couldn't have looked as she did, so utterly and thoroughly ravished as she chewed her lower lip, digging her fingernails into his back while her perky breasts pressed against his chest, bucking to meet his rhythm. He had been able to possess the 'boy' long enough to throw her one of his smirks. Then his world exploded with stars and bright light- much like a muggle novel- giving the host of the body the distraction needed to regain his own mind.

He had not been with a woman for years; she having been his first after so many years of seclusion and that was how he explained why he had just felt the _most fantastic orgasm_ of his life. Her confusion amidst the rapture of post-coital bliss was enough to fuel him for the next few years.

He would never admit that the power he felt at having slept with the only female of the infamous Golden Trio was also what pushed him to do what he did.

* * *

The next time he had come across her was when he removed himself from the large battle at Hogwarts; his Death Eaters would do fine against a bunch of unseasoned, ill-trained, adolescents. Besides, without the brains behind their group, they wouldn't last five minutes, if even. This was the only time he ever acknowledged the Gods, by thanking them for not letting the two boys realize how much of a treasure she was.

Then again, he pondered as he watched from behind a tree, perhaps they did see how valuable she was. She had just successfully finished a series of intricate wand moves, which, judging by the concentration it seemed to require, it could not have been done in all the commotion at the castle. Plus, the fact that she was alone meant she had also escaped without being seen and with the amount of Death Eaters he had employed, that would have been impossible unless she had help.

Nothing around them happened but she had smiled with relief, nonetheless. He did not known then what she had done but understood it to be something significant. Later, he would find out that her spell had activated the Portkey charm on the galleon that lay forgotten in many of her allies' pockets, leading them to safety- which was away from the battle. They would suffer losses as he did, but not as many as they would have had they stayed and fought.

Until then, he lifted his wand and gently whispered, "Stupefy."

* * *

He had spied her the fifth time when she was shaking herself awake. He had chuckled then when she ruffled her feathers as she did while her webbed feet paddled awkwardly at the water beneath her. Then, as though realizing she could not morph from her animagus form, she started to squawk annoyingly, brown eyes flashing with anger as the jeweled choker around her neck rattled. She turned around the pond in a full circle before those molasses-colored eyes landed on him, filled with hatred and anger. Then, pointing a wing at him as though it were a finger, she started to squawk again.

He was far too amused to realize he'd liberated himself from his robes and only the splash of cold water brought him back to awareness. By then, she had begun paddling away as fast as her webbed feet could carry but the pond was small and she was but a prisoner in his home. So capturing her was easy.

The sleek body of the swan had morphed underneath his hands into the familiar, curvy body of the woman he'd but known for only less than half a minute. Instead of rattling with each flap of her wings, the choker now heaved in rhythm with her naked breasts as she fought him. Curls flew everywhere when he jerked her around to face a rock, but he brushed them aside so that he could get a nice grip on her shoulder while he pushed in from behind. Water churned around them as he thrust in and out, breaths ragged as their bodies hummed with raw power.

She was not pitiful in her rape. She had not cried, had not screamed but he knew she was angry because it felt _soooooo_ good to be in her when she was that tense. Of course, he still preferred the first time he'd done it when she had been willing with her partner. But he was not picky in his conquests even if he had every right to be.

He would soon tire of the water and move them to their bed. At first, they didn't even make it to the bed because he would take her against the floor. He had hardly been celibate in his school years and he would not be now, when he finally regained his body after all these years.

And not just any body, no. He had gotten back his body at sixteen years of age; the body and face that had charmed hundreds to his cause- not the one that had been disfigured from the creation of the Horcruxes. He was not a narcissist by far, but even he understood a beautiful face went a long way. He would be Tom Riddle in appearance (Severus _did_ brew a mean restoration potion) and Voldemort at heart.

She had refused to hold his hands with fingers interlaced (or at all) but what Tom Riddle wanted, Tom Riddle gets. After all, the intimacy of the gesture was not missed on him and he loved to tease her so very much. He had gotten a bit annoyed at the slipperiness of the marble which ended up in them going front to back (once again) against a dressing table. He had watched himself in the mirror, pushing into her and admired the tautness of her back, the muscles that showed themselves as her small frame strained to fit his girth. He only wished he could also watch the face hidden behind the voluminous curls but his hands were too busy otherwise to brush them aside.

They made it to bed later. After they collapsed from exhaustion, he laid there in bed thinking that despite the bliss that came from his claim of her body, it still didn't match that of the night he had first experienced it. It was then that he promised himself he would make her _willing_ to come to him by any means necessary. He would no longer force her.

He wasn't sure if that sort of reasoning should frighten him but he certainly didn't let it bother him any longer than it should've.

* * *

The sixth time he had come across her was when he had stumbled across her bleeding animagus form in his pond after returning from a successful raid on Hogsmeade. The raid was only successful because the Light's hero was still recuperating from the loss of their brilliant Gryffindor Princess and he was all too ready to take advantage of poor-Harry's weakness. He had thought Dumbledore to be a smarter man to have _at least_ trained him a bit better. But really, depending on a _boy_ to defeat the darkest wizard of their time? Not possible.

He had quickly morphed her back into her human form and levitated her to his bed. Then he called for a medi-witch to deal with her while he personally dealt with his most loyal Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange. He would not put up with injuries dealt to his belongings- they were his to use however he saw fit. Plus, it wouldn't be good if he let any of his Death Eaters become too uppity. Especially if they thought they could touch what was his and get away with it.

* * *

The seventh time he had come across her was when he had returned to the room after a torture session; Bellatrix's screams had been more than pleasing and it shamed the gentlemen in him to think that all he could think about was shagging a witch who had just been spelled within an inch of her life. But he was not into sleeping with the unconscious; that just did not sit well with him.

So he sat down in a chair as the medi-witch assured him that she had done all she could and everything else was left up to the witch in question. Her comforting smile was meant to instill in him that the curly-haired girl would pull through but he was still not pleased. He would call Pettigrew several minutes later to dispose of the medi-witch's cold body.

* * *

The eighth time, he had been pleasantly surprised when he awoke with her straddling his lap. He ignored the fact that she kept calling him bloody-fucking-Harry, the relief that showed in her fever-ridden eyes as she bruised his lips with a ferocious kiss, and the heat that she emanated which only served to make his groin burn uncomfortably. Then, when they came up for air, she asked why he had not come for her until now, how she had waited, and that she missed his beautiful green eyes. But all those, he did not hear as he was more preoccupied with moving them to his bed.

Never once did he correct her in her delirious state- in fact, he assured her that everything was alright. That Harry-bloody-Potter was here to save the day like always and that yes – _oh-god-yes – _they would leave as soon as she…

All thoughts went flying out the window as both bodies rose in rhythm, lusty moans tearing through the silence of the night as the air crackled with their magical energy.

* * *

"Harry?" She had first said when she awoke from her slumber.

A chuckle rumbled from the deep confines of his throat as he twirled a glossy chestnut curl in his long, slender fingers, "No. Not Harry."

"Then who-," she turned around in bed to face him, hand reaching up to brush away the curls. Pupils dilated in recognition and her mouth opened in a silent scream before he captured it in a bruising kiss, much like she had done to him earlier that night.

Once he was done thoroughly ravishing her mouth, he let go and peered at her through hooded green eyes. The _same_ green eyes she had mistaken him for her lover. He knew she was confused but she wasn't the brightest witch of her age for nothing.

"Oh no…I…" If her wide eyes were any indication of memories resurfaced, then he imagined she was finally all too aware of what she had done.

She looked away, tears glistening in her eyes as she curled up into a little ball at the edge of the bed.

He simply pulled her back towards his chest with one arm, his other arm supporting his head; Tom Riddle did not enjoy cold beds. He pressed a kiss to her head, ignoring the flinch as he caressed her bare arm. He would be amused for the next few hours, just feeling the baby-smooth skin of her body while she cried herself to sleep.

He finally thanked his good-for-nothing father for giving him one useful thing in his life- his eyes.

* * *

The ninth time his eyes met hers was through force on his part despite his earlier promise to himself. After their last encounter, she had refused to meet his eyes every time he came to her. Each time he took her, she would just let him, her brown eyes lacking the vivacity that had first drawn him to her. He refused to deal with such impudence. So when his followers finally captured the red-haired girl who was the reason for his first knowledge of the curly-haired witch, he made sure she saw what he did to those who opposed him. A stroke across her downy white head and she transformed before their very eyes.

The red-haired girl gave a gasp and tears started to drip down her cheeks. He had heard her mutter something of the sort, "You're alive, oh, thank Merlin you're alive." It seemed odd to him since he had not expected words of endearment but rather, words of spite like she had first spat out when he spoke to her through the wizened pages of his diary. He supposed it had something to do with time and the camaraderie that came with it- which all the more served his _own _purposes.

After they disposed of the Weasley girl's still body, life seemed to return to her as her brown eyes exploded in a cacophony of sorrow and anger- mostly anger, raw anger. It wasn't the willingness he wanted but anything was better than the emotionless doll she had become the last few weeks.

He ordered his Death Eaters out of the room and made quick work of his robes. He had dragged her kicking and screaming to the bed, bore her small fists beating on his chest which only stilled when he sheathed himself in her. She had gasped at the intrusion but kept pushing at him regardless of the fact that he was obviously the physically strongest of them two.

Then he remembered the promise he made to himself, how he would no longer take her by force and how she would come to him willingly.

But he reasoned to himself, that he _deserved_ it.

He just didn't know what compelled him to say anything to her though.

"It's alright. She was a jealous nobody." He had whispered in her ears.

She had responded softly, "She wasn't a nobody. Not to me. Not to Harry."

He silenced her with a kiss because he refused to ever hear _that_ name come out of her mouth again.

* * *

He should have known that the most brilliant and clever witch of her generation, with grades that matched his, would have something up her sleeve- especially since she was not one to just sit and endure his treatment of her (or rather her friends). The tenth time he'd seen her was when he had made her watch his follower's torture and kill the ragged shell that was half human, half wolf.

He had seen something in her break and was beside himself with glee that he'd finally gotten through that stubborn and tough shell of a woman, that the break meant his complete possession of her. He had done it to so many and had always known the outcome. He was never wrong.

Until now.

He had entered his chambers alone and saw her standing at his window, clothed in only a sheer robe and the jeweled choker around her neck. The moonlight cast a halo around her pale, heart-shaped face which made him shift uncomfortably in the tight trousers he wore underneath the black robes.

But he was calm, cool, and collected. He made his way slowly across the room, stopping only a scant few inches behind her. She had turned her head slightly at his obtrusiveness upon her space, but not enough to meet his eyes.

He watched her carefully but it wasn't long before his hands found them at her small shoulders, brushing aside the hair that prevented his access to her neck. Pressing a warm kiss at the nape of her neck, she shuddered so deliciously that he found his lust surging beyond control and his steel nerves collapsing. Then with a swift move on his part, he had her up in his arms and on his bed before either of them could blink.

He made a slow perusal of her body, ears filled to the brim with her throaty moans. When he could finally take it no more, he pried her legs apart and positioned himself before her slick entrance, his own manhood throbbing most painfully.

"Wait." She had said in that mellifluous voice of hers, ever the music to his ears. Then she had taken him by the head and pressed her lips to his. There was a warm explosion across his belly and when he could no longer stand it anymore, she startled him again by flipping their positions.

He had barely uttered a "What?" before he found himself encompassed in the most delicious heat that he knew only she could supply. She had closed her eyes, her mouth opened wide as a loud moan sounded from her mouth. He didn't even know that he had cried out so loud himself until she started to shift on top of him, moving in the most pleasing way possible.

That night, he was most thankful for the thick walls that prevented any sounds to escape the room because he was pretty sure the both of them together could have possibly broken the silencing charm by sheer will alone.

* * *

He had woken in the middle of the night, deeply sated, soaked in sex and fluids of their transgression by the eerie sensation of someone staring at him. He was not wrong. His green eyes had met sad brown ones, a far cry from the lust that had encompassed them just hours ago.

She looked away with a slight blush on her cheeks. He knew it had something to do with the way he let the sheets fall from his body as the moonlight did nothing to hide her from his naked glory. He would've smirked had he not seen the choker that dangled from her left hand and his wand twirling in her right.

He was wary but not frightened. After all, he spent his entire life reading people and with her, he had done more than just _read_. He knew she didn't have it in her to kill. So he waited silently, body tense as she twirled the wand in her hand like it wasn't the Dark Lord's wand she was in possession of.

Then finally, her faint voice cut through the tense silence like a sharp knife on softened butter, "That night…"

He knew exactly what she spoke of.

"Was it you, that night?"

He arched an eyebrow as he was want to do often and murmured his acquiesce.

"That explains a lot." She murmured under her breath as the wand twirling came to a stop. "We were both virgins that night."

He smirked, "Him, I expected. You, however…"

He heard her draw in a harsh breath before she lifted his eyes to his, "It wasn't for pleasure."

His stomach churned uncomfortably. He really didn't like the look in her eyes. "Could've fooled me." He answered nonchalantly.

"I was sharing my life force with him. So that he could become more powerful in the final battle against you."

This time, it was he who drew in the ragged breath. No wonder he felt such a strong surge of power after that small encounter. No wonder it had been so easy to regain his corporeal form. He would also put money on the fact that_ that_ was also the reason why the restorative potion worked so well when it was Dark Magic that had transfigured his body so hideously. Dark Magic was normally irreversible but it seemed alright, at the time, to credit Severus given his penchant for potions.

"Give me my wand." he commanded, none too lightly.

She smiled sadly, "I'm afraid it's mine now."

"That's impossible-," he began immediately before she interjected.

"It's mine." Then, with a smirk that rivaled his own, "Remember when I climbed on top of you?"

He laughed out loud bitterly, "Where's the need when _you do it so well_?"

She landed on her hands, slowly making her way across the bed and up his legs. There was an indescribable glint in her eyes which only served to irritate the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He found himself suddenly immobile, surprised but yet, not. If there was anybody who could do wordless spells, she would be one of the _very, very few._

For once in his life, he would admit that he was utterly and completely helpless, at the total whim of this small slip of a girl but again, he wasn't afraid. After all, she would've killed him already if she wanted to.

"Did you know that wand ownership can transfer to another as long as it finds its new master fit to do so?" She practically sang with her breath flitting across his shoulder as her hair tickled his chest. "When I climbed on top of you…" Sometimes words were better left unsaid.

He clenched his jaw but he knew his eyes betrayed his answer. He didn't care though. He _wouldn't _care.

"It's mine now." She said with a lift of her eyebrows, mocking surprise. She trailed the wand down his pale, slender throat and sighed. "You probably know I can't kill you."

He didn't know, but he had a sinking suspicion.

"Because if I kill you, then I would lose half of my own life force that I gave to Harry and you unwittingly took." She watched him with sad brown eyes. "Unfortunately, I've far too many aspirations to die just _yet_."

Just as she lifted the stunning spell she'd cast on him, he reached up to grab her arms but it was already _too late_. She had clasped the choker around his neck and already, he felt his bones shifting into his own animagus form.

"Well, this is surprising." She said in the same soft voice.

A growl came forth from deep in his throat, jade green eyes glaring into hers as his sleek black form rose from the bed.

She lifted a hand for him to sniff and after a few moments, the emerald-eyed animal nuzzled it, satisfied in the knowledge that she posed no threat. It wasn't like he could harm her either because the life force magic worked _both ways_.

Another sad smile graced her features, a 'pop,' and the shifting of curtains as a slight wind blew in from the window.

Except for the rays of moonlight that kissed the glossy surface of the marble floor, the room was deathly vacant.

Three black figures would disturb that silence and vacancy hours later. Days after that, their faction would be burnt to a crisp by a magically enhanced fire and all those opposed would have died in it, or be caught later. The long, arduous war that Wizarding Britain had suffered for the past few years would finally be laid to rest.

In one small cottage off the shore of the Mediterranean sat a curly-haired witch in front of a cackling fire, a snoozing panther with his head on her lap while she perused the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Staring up at her from the picture was a tired looking, albeit triumphant, green-eyed boy who would be lifted on a pair of twin shoulders as fists pumped into the air ceremoniously. Of course, the article pointed out that the Dark Lord's body had not been found but the Boy-Who-Lived assured the masses that his scar didn't even tingle with the same awareness as it did before. The rest of Britain should then be assured that the war was over…at least for now.

She would smile the same sad smile and go on petting the large cat, seemingly identical green-eyes peering groggily at her as she sat entranced by the dancing orange and yellow flames.


End file.
